


Want For Not

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: M/M, PWP, Threesomes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5972761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hancock/Male Sole Survivor/Paladin Danse PWP, based on the prompt: "What do you want me to say?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want For Not

Hancock purrs, brushing the flat plane of his noseless face against the shell of Danse’s ear. All things considered, he’s practically as pre-war preserved perfect as Sole; even with the scar running down his face he’s Buffout fit and Hollywood handsome. Maybe that’s why Hancock enjoys this; he can’t lie, there’s a sort of getting back aspect to this, a school yard nanny-nanny poo-poo and a flick of a thumb under his chin to all of the times Danse snarled “Freak,” at him without even having the gall to act bashful about his prejudices.

But– no. That’s not it. He would be lying if that was it. Hancock’s certainly not spiteful. He sees the irony, if one could call it that, but he also realizes that Danse has slid squarely from the people who need hurting to the people who need helping category.

He likes turning Danse into a mess in his hands. It’s a good look for him.

Funny, how crew cuts turned out to be his type.

Danse practically mewls, arches his nude, sweat slicked body off the damp cot. He glows like radioactive snow and Sole’s all ruddy tan lines and the golden child of the commonwealth next to his pale skin, running his hands down quivering abdominals that, they’ve agreed in private, are too damn good to be true. Practically manufactured.

Sole licks his lips, and silently catches Hancock’s eyes. Hancock is still fully dressed, sitting at the side of the bed in a backwards-turned chair. “Aw, c'mon. That ain’t an intelligible word.” Hancock murmurs into his ear, pets the side of his face with rough hands that, even now, speared on just the head of Sole’s cock and delirious with want, he still flinches minutely from. He could try and excuse it as him being startled by the motion, as he’s blindfolded. But it’s still a force of habit.

But he’s learning you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Danse digs his fingers into the damp crooks of his own knees; he’s been holding himself spread out wide for so long, everything’s shaking. “Please,” Danse gasps like he’s drowning, “Please tell him to move.”

Hancock and Sole’s eyes meet over his body once more. It’s like a good cop bad cop routine. Sole inches forward and Danse sounds out and Hancock tuts.

“Please,” Danse mutters, tilts his head towards Hancock’s direction. It almost startles him, when Danse finds mottled skin and he actually nuzzles against it, mouths blind and fumbling against his jaw and chin, his breath so loud up close. Sole can’t stifle his groan at the sight, Hancock looking as flushed as a ghoul can be with Danse pressing desperate kisses to his face like hushed shouts, keen on pulling any kind reaction from him. “Hancock, please.”

He took to these power plays like he was coming home; they’re not the Brotherhood of Steel, but Danse needs direction like a fish needs water and he likes when they take mercy on him. Sole doesn’t understand it. Thinks it might be a way for him to atone for everything. He’s always been a kind, steadfast soul, deep down, though mottled by vitriol over the years. His voice is booming but his syntax is meek, his blame cyclical.

Hancock turns his face, captures Danse’s bottom lip in his mouth. It’s fleshy and full between his teeth, and he sucks it in, twists and swallows up his moan. When Hancock lets him go he’s thrumming, one hand petting his sternum. “Sole, love– would you kindly fuck this Paladin the way he deserves?” His voice is all light and sing-song, cards his fingers fondly through Danse’s chest hair.

Danse can’t see his face, but Sole’s all quivering thighs and potential energy, and he finally let’s the inertia of his hips swing him in; Danse shouts so loud the Minutemen down the way in Sanctuary will hear, but he doesn’t care, sobs his _thank yous and thank yous and thank yous_ like he’s finding Atom’s rapture with the Sole Survivor between his thighs and Mayor Hancock’s hands curved warm against his jaw. Danse doesn’t think he deserves it but that’s what they’ve always been good at; helping those who need helping and hurting those that need hurting, and maybe they could mold all of those horrifically misplaced good intentions and blind trust with kindness. Hancock tilts his head back and swallows all of Danse’s noise with slow kisses, murmurs warm praise to his lips and the stubble of his cheeks and against the black hair plastered to his forehead. Coaxes him to completion with those gentle touches and hushed words, _go on, that’s it,_ and Danse’s untouched cock is spilling over his own belly between his groans as Sole’s thrusts become erratic. Hancock cradles Danse’s head, thin fingers easily pulling away the blindfold. He directs his head again; they both watch Sole as his hips snap against Danse, the way his eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is parted with his pants. He comes much more quietly than Danse; and even then, Danse’s small groans as Sole speeds up, slows down, then stops, head dropping forward and chin to his chest.

Hancock chuckles low in his throat, his thumbs idly tracing Danse’s cheekbones. “He’s something, huhn.” He mutters, in reference to the Sole Survivor. To his credit, he has the gall to look sheepish when he blinks back into himself at the words, his eyes finally focusing to find the two watching him. His slackening cock slides out from Danse. Danse barely has the strength, but he manages to push himself up just enough by his elbows, flushed and mildly embarrassed as Sole crawls up his body, getting his own stomach slick with his come. Hancock doesn’t move his hands that frame his face as Sole leans in for the hard kiss, their teeth clicking. When Sole pulls away, he’s looking up at Hancock.

“Did you come?”

Hancock laughs, “I didn’t even get the chance to take off my pants before I was caught up in you two.” Danse is bright red between his hands, eyes everywhere but them.

This is normal. Sole catches Danse’s eye, his smile friendly but hungry. “Well, we’ll have to change that.” And then, directed to Danse, “if you’re up to it.” This is normal, also. Danse, like Hancock, is stubborn enough with his convictions that Sole never feels shy thinking he may not get a straight answer from him. Every time before, Danse has muttered his excuses and they’ve finished up elsewhere, without him. They don’t press. They’re both, ultimately, patient, and they exist quite well without him, though that’s always been unsaid.

Danse shakes Hancock’s hands off like a dog, a little too roughly; that is also normal, the touch of shame that brightens his face, his broad shoulders hunched and humbled with guilt. Hancock’s already easing out of his seat, but Danse’s shoulders are squared a little more than usual.

“Okay.” Sole blinks at the Paladin, then towards Hancock. Hancock’s brows are miles high on his forehead.

“Is that so?”

Danse’s face wavers between shy and sour. “Don’t push it, Hancock.” And he clears his throat, eases himself up to a sitting position, Sole falling back to sit on his heels. He reaches out for Hancock, loops thick fingers in the loops of his pants. He doesn’t have to tug, though he could, for Hancock to walk forward, hips swaying.

Hancock settles a hand on Danse’s cheek again, rubs the pad of his thumb against his swollen lips. He inhales, tightly, ignores the way his face is burning and his fingers fumble over buttons and zippers. Sole drapes himself over Danse’s shoulders, nuzzles his nose against the side of his warm face. Hancock laughs and Danse shivers, his hands hesitating.

“Go on. You’re doing so well.” Hancock rumbles, and when Danse glances up he has to swallow hard. Finds himself wavering in those pitch black eyes. He’s not hard to look at, for once. And that voice–

Danse ducks his head a little, even as the Sole Survivor trails lazy kisses to his neck. “Just keep talking?” It ends in a question. Hancock laughs again, not unfriendly, watches Danse finally ease the hem of his pants down and his underwear with it.

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my tumblr @civilization-illstayrighthere if you too love beef jerky and making tin cans beg


End file.
